We live in a world where adults unselfconsciously celebrate things intended for children: fancy restaurants serve "elevated" versions of grilled cheese, Toy Story and Mario movies dominate the box office, and my peers' favourite musician is the same as my 11-year-old niece's. As Grub Street succinctly put it, "Everything is a kids menu now."
I'm hardly immune; I wrote the above paragraph while eating a donut and drinking a Friday afternoon cider, which, let's be honest, is basically apple juice with a buzz.
Maybe we let poptimism go a little too far, or maybe we all need a little comfort in today's famously turbulent times — but this reliance on childish comforts explains why Harry Potter simply refuses to go away. With a new TV series coming to HBO later this year and a putrid-looking line of donuts coming to Tim Hortons this month, this story of preteens going to wizarding school remains one of the most valuable IPs in the world — even as its creator makes a career pivot from author to full-time transphobic activist devoting her time, image and considerable wealth to spread a message of hatred against a marginalized group.
I don't have statistics to show how much of Harry Potter's enduring cultural supremacy is thanks to its target demographic (i.e. children) — but what I can anecdotally confirm is that I frequently see grown adults wearing T-shirts that say things like "I solemnly swear I am up to no good." The last time I was on dating apps back in 2020, the many bios that said "Ravenclaw" were a quick indication to swipe left.
Harry Potter has become the transphobic version of the Disney adult: people who enthusiastically telegraph their love of the world's most popular products, and turn "loving a corporation" into a cornerstone of their personality. As a well-documented Red Hot Chili Peppers fan, I'm hardly in a position to finger-wag about how "X is not a personality trait" — but I can safely say that being a fan of the world's most popular children's book is not interesting, and certainly nothing to brag about.
I myself narrowly escaped life as a Harry Potter adult. The first book was published in the summer of 1997; I was 11, the same age as its titular protagonist, and I grew up alongside Harry for the next few books.
I was hooked: I visited Platform 9 3/4 before it became a major tourist destination with a lineup to take photos, and showed up to midnight releases at Chapters long before there were entire stores dedicated to the franchise. I absolutely hated the films — partly because they suck, but mostly because they tainted my treasured mental image of the world and its characters, which felt so real to me as a teenager.
I was sad yet satisfied when the series ended after seven books, and I soon learned that Harry Potter was best left in the past: the clumsily written epilogue that ends The Deathly Hallows, Rowling's self-congratulatory retconning of Dumbledore as gay, the laughably bad Cursed Child book (a play I thankfully never saw live), and the dwindling quality of the Fantastic Beasts films all convinced me that, while Harry Potter was a special part of my youth, you can't go home again. It all felt a bit like visiting your childhood home and discovering how much smaller it is than you remembered.
Once a series of books credited with raising youth reading rates, Harry Potter is now one of the world's preeminent sources for junk that will end up in a landfill. Toy stores and bookshops are filled with cheap trinkets, and many major cities (Toronto included) have entire stores dedicated to Harry Potter trash.
I won't belabour points about the heinous transphobia of Harry Potter's creator, who since 2020 has gone from claiming to be a "supporter of trans people's right to live free of persecution" to actively campaigning for their persecution. Other people have done a better job than I ever could in analyzing her bigotry — but what I will point out is that the old cliché about "separating the art from the artist" is impossible when Harry Potter's central message is to condemn discrimination against marginalized groups considered "impure."
Similarly, it's impossible to separate the art from the artist when she actively uses her profits from Harry Potter to fund campaigns pushing transphobic legislation, meaning that streams of her new HBO show will be funnelled into her fund for what she calls "sex-based rights." (When I see one of those "I solemnly swear I am up to no good" shirts, it's accurate in ways the wearer probably didn't intend.)
She's even shifted her writing itself to transphobic themes: her last couple of whodunnit books under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith have included a serial killer identified as a man wearing women's clothing, as well as a character who gets "cancelled" by online trolls accusing her of transphobia. Write what you know, I guess.
I can't begrudge the enjoyment kids get from the books; like Hannah Montana or Spider-Man, few things speak to children more than a story about a young nerd living a secret double life.
But for the parents understandably encouraging their child's reading habit, I encourage you to not spend any money on a franchise that's long past its expiration date. I still have a full set of the hardcover books, and would be happy to give them to the parent of a Harry Potter-loving kid. They're underneath my bed, supporting the frame after the middle leg broke.
